


Expression

by infiniteeight



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Alpha Stiles Stilinski, Alpha/Beta/Omega Dynamics, Friends to Lovers, Frottage, M/M, Omega Peter Hale, no heat sex, sorry about that
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-27
Updated: 2020-12-27
Packaged: 2021-03-10 21:20:26
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,757
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28353813
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/infiniteeight/pseuds/infiniteeight
Summary: People are supposed to develop their gender expression, alpha or omega, somewhere between fifteen and eighteen. If you don't express by then, there's a hormone shot to help expression along. Most of the time it works. Rarely, it doesn't.But never say never.
Relationships: Peter Hale/Stiles Stilinski
Comments: 49
Kudos: 502





	Expression

Stiles sits hunched over at the kitchen table while his dad makes the call. Twice, he almost interrupts to tell his dad not to bother. That if his gender isn’t going to express naturally, then he doesn’t want to force it. But they’ve had that conversation before, several times, and it always ends here, with his dad making him an appointment to get the shot.

Literally everyone else in his grade had expressed as either alpha or omega by graduation. Half of them weren’t 18 yet, but they all had their gender firmly established by the time they walked the stage. Stiles was the only one up there still showing the neutral scent and bearing of the pre-expressed. He’d held his head high and reminded himself that being unexpressed didn’t make him weak, but he can still hear the snickers.

Worse than the embarrassment, though, is the fact that the pre-expressed are considered children, and therefore not legally responsible. It does matter that he’s 18, he still can’t vote, or get married, or make his own medical decisions. Which is why his dad has to make the call to get him the hormone shot that should kickstart his body into coughing up a gender expression of _some_ kind. 

“All set,” Noah says, hanging up the phone and coming over to sit next to Stiles. He puts a hand on his shoulder. “The doc says it doesn’t take long, so he can fit you in tomorrow at 10am.”

Stiles looks up and forces a smile. “Thanks, dad.”

Noah squeezes his shoulder before letting go. “It’s going to be fine. You know the shot almost always works.”

“Right,” Stiles says. And if it doesn’t, it’s not the end of the world. “Could I go over to the Hales’?”

“Are you sure that’s a good idea right now?” Noah asks carefully.

Stiles knows what he means, but he still rolls his eyes, because they’ve had this conversation even more often than they’ve had the one about the shot. 

Peter Hale never expressed. Not at 18, not when he got the shot, not ever. At twenty, his family had to go to court to get him legally classified as an adult. The courts made him jump through all kinds of humiliating hoops to prove his competency, but he’d done it, and he’d gotten what he wanted. He’d moved away for awhile, made a career for himself, even had a couple relationships, though they hadn’t lasted. 

Stiles has known the family since he’d started high school--Cora was in his class--but in the last two years Peter has gone from being the relative with the interesting past to the main reason he goes over to the Hales’. 

His dad is convinced that Peter is a bad influence, that his example is the reason Stiles even considered not getting the shot. To be fair, Noah isn’t entirely wrong, but it’s not because Stiles is emulating Peter. He doesn’t want to be _like_ Peter, he wants to be _with_ Peter. He’s gorgeous and smart and just as sarcastic as Stiles. The fact that he seems painfully lonely even surrounded by his family is so fucking unfair, and part of Stiles wants to step into that bubble with him and make it better.

“Peter’s on your side,” Stiles says. “You should hear the horror stories he tells me to convince me that anything is better than being unexpressed.”

“And your crush has nothing to do with it,” Noah says, raising his eyebrows.

Stiles sighs, but he’d given up on telling his dad it wasn’t a crush ages ago. “Does that mean I can’t go?” He feels his face fall, his shoulders slump a little more, and he isn’t faking, but he doesn’t make any effort to cover his disappointment, either.

This time Noah sighs. “No,” he says. “Go ahead. You can stay for dinner, if you want, but be home by ten.”

Stiles beams at him and jumps up out of his seat. “Thanks, dad,” he says. He leans down for a quick hug before scooping up his jacket, phone, and keys and heading out the door.

It takes a conscious effort to keep from speeding on his way over. His dad might not be working, but if one of the deputies stops Stiles, the Sheriff will hear about it and the last thing Stiles wants right now is to hand him more fuel for the “crush” argument. Yeah, he’s eager to see Peter, despite having seen him just a couple of days ago, but it’s not a crush. It’s more than that.

Which is exactly what a teenager with a crush would say, Stiles admits. But he’s had crushes before. He knows that giddy feeling and the way your imagination runs away with you. He also knows that with all his other crushes, he’d fantasized about having the perfect life with them, sometimes in crazy detail. He doesn’t construct elaborate fantasies about a life with Peter--instead, he thinks about what it feels like to be around the man _now_. He wants more of what they already have, but every time he reaches out, Peter draws back just far enough that he can’t cross the gulf between friendship and more.

Arriving at the Hale house, Stiles parks and jogs up to the door, knocking quickly before opening it and stepping inside. He’s had an open invitation for years. “Hey there,” he calls out, shutting the door behind himself.

“Stiles,” Peter calls back, and Stiles grins. Peter comes down the stairs in bare feet, jeans, and a white henley. Physical attraction is muted pre-expression, but Peter is so insanely hot that Stiles finds himself taking a moment to drink in the sight of him anyway. “Your father made the appointment?”

Stiles makes a face and follows Peter into the kitchen, where he starts pulling ingredients out of the fridge for a snack. Peter is constantly trying to feed him. Stiles isn’t sure if he’s really that skinny or if that’s just how Peter is. “Yeah,” he says aloud. “Tomorrow at ten.”

“Are you hoping for any particular outcome?” Peter looks up from where he’s tossed butter, garlic, jalapenos, and some kind of onion into a pan. 

Stiles leans against the counter next to him and takes a deep breath. It smells good, even if he isn’t sure what kind of snack this is going to be. It looks more like the start to dinner, so far. “Not really. They all have their up sides.”

“All?” Peter pauses in his stirring to pull more stuff out of the fridge. Cheese, cheese, and… more cheese. “Don’t you mean both?”

“No, I meant all. Are you seriously making queso from scratch?”

“Yes,” Peter says impatiently. “Stiles, how many times have I told you, there are no upsides to not expressing at all.”

Stiles looks away and shrugs. “I kind of figured it’d be you and me against the world. I don’t want--” _this space between us anymore_ “--to lose you. It feels like if I express, we’ll be on opposite sides somehow, and you’ll be alone again.”

Peter is quiet for a long minute, his eyes fixed on the queso. “You deserve better,” he says eventually, and there’s an odd tightness to his voice. “And we’ll still be friends after you express. I promise.” 

He doesn’t sound like he believes it.

“What were you hoping for?” Stiles asks, because it’s never come up before and he’s always wondered. Peter makes an inquiring hum. “When you got the shot,” Stiles says. “Did you want to be an alpha or an omega?”

Peter goes still, but only for a moment. He doesn’t look up from the pan. “At the time,” he says, “I wanted to be an alpha.” He snorts. “I was one of those assholes who thinks that being an alpha makes you stronger, both physically and emotionally. I thought if I wanted to win--arguments, awards, partners, win anything--that being an alpha would be an advantage.”

“I have a hard time imagining you being that unsubtle.”

“ _Less_ subtle, not _un_ subtle,” Peter counters archly. They both snicker. “In my defense, I hadn’t had to work for much of anything, at the time, and I had some serious blindspots because of it.”

“You said, ‘at the time’,” Stiles comments. “Would you want something different now? If you could?”

Peter hums softly. “These days it varies. Sometimes I think of the way people automatically pay attention to alphas and I wish that was me. Sometimes I think of having kids and I can’t imagine anything better than carrying them myself. Sometimes the idea of my life changing from anything but what it is terrifies me.” He sighs and the sound has such a melancholy edge that Stiles regrets asking. “Mostly,” Peter says, “I just wish I could bond with someone.”

Scott was always going on about how amazing bonding was. Not just romantic bonds, but family bonds and platonic bonds, too. Stiles wouldn’t know--the only kind of bonds anyone could form before expressing were one-sided familial bonds with expressed family members. And that, in the end, is why Stiles’ dad always wins their arguments about whether or not Stiles should get the shot. Even if he stepped into that bubble with Peter, they wouldn’t be able to bond to one another and that, more than anything, is what Peter is missing. It’s why he’d moved back to Beacon Hills to be closer to his family: for the one-sided familial bonds that were all he could have.

There isn’t anything Stiles can say, so instead he reaches over and tries to stick his finger into the pot of queso. Peter slaps his hand away. “Are you trying to ruin it?” he demands. 

Stiles rolls his eyes. “It’s dip, not a souffle. Are you not worried about me burning myself?”

Peter scoffs. “The cheese is barely melted, you’d hardly be burned.”

“Such little concern for my well being,” Stiles pouts dramatically and grins when Peter can’t help but snort. 

“I’m feeding you, that should be concern enough,” he says, but he’s smiling again.

They don’t talk about the shot or gender expression for the rest of the evening. Neither do the other Hales, when they get home or emerge from their rooms and find Stiles and Peter eating dip and playing chess in the living room. That doesn’t surprise Stiles--they’ve always waited for him to mention it first. He doesn’t, so they don’t, but it’s still on his mind. He can’t help but notice the glances they give him, and the comforting touches they brush over Peter’s shoulders. Everyone thinks that when Stiles expresses, he’ll leave Peter behind. Only time will convince them otherwise.

Compared to everyone’s worry and doubt, the doctor the next morning is refreshingly brisk. He greets Stiles, reviews his chart, and promises he’ll be as fast as he can when Stiles mentions his issues with needles. There is one surprising question, though. “Any strong feelings on how you want or expect to express?”

“No,” Stiles says, eyebrows flying up. “Does that make a difference?”

The doctor nods. “We all have the capacity to be either alpha or omega,” he explains. “Under extreme conditions, a fully expressed adult can even switch from alpha to omega or vice versa. When people express late, it’s usually because their hormones are naturally well balanced. If you identify very strongly one way or the other, we use a different formulation of the shot to try and nudge you in that direction.” His smile turns a hair wry. “It doesn’t always work, but we do our best not to create unnecessary identity conflicts.”

“Huh.” Stiles turns that over in his head for a minute. “Does that mean if I don’t have a preference, I’m more likely to not express if I get the regular shot? I mean, if everything is balanced, wouldn’t a balanced shot just keep it that way?”

“Well balanced isn’t the same as perfectly balanced,” the doctor says. “Your body almost certainly has a bit more of one hormone than the other, just not enough to trigger expression. We’ll boost them both, and whichever one tips over the threshold is the expression you’ll get.”

“Makes sense.” It also makes Stiles wonder what had happened with Peter, but he doesn’t ask. Instead, he takes a deep breath and concentrates on not fainting while he watches the doctor fill the syringe from a small bottle. 

He must make a sound, because the doctor looks over at him and suggests, “Maybe close your eyes?” Stiles shuts them immediately and focuses on breathing and following instructions. The doctor doesn’t warn him or count down or anything. There’s just a sudden pinch, a weird cold sensation in his arm, and then pressure. “You can look now.”

The syringe is gone. The doctor is holding a cotton ball to his arm with one hand and reaching for a band aid with the other. Stiles relaxes. “So what now?”

“Expression should start in an hour or two,” the doctor says, removing the cotton ball and smoothing the band aid into place. “You’ll have muscle cramps, some genital pain, and possibly a mild fever. That’s fine, it’s expected.”

“Genital pain?” Stiles asks faintly. 

“You’ll be rapidly developing an entire additional set of sexual organs,” the doctor says gently. “But any non-prescription painkiller should help. It’s a little worse for men expressing omega or women expressing alpha, but not too bad. Rest, take a hot bath. It won’t last more than 48 hours.”

And that’s it. Stiles stops on his way home and buys Tylenol, a heating pad, a cold pack, and a few oven ready meals, because it sounds like he’s not going to want to be doing much except riding it out, no matter how the doctor tried to downplay things. His dad had offered to take the day off, go with him to the appointment and take care of him afterward, but Stiles had turned him down.

Three hours later, Stiles is kind of regretting that. He’s lying in bed, sweating, with the cold pack wrapped in towels and carefully tucked between his legs. “Some genital pain,” he groans, wishing he’d bought two cold packs so he could trade them out without getting up. Okay, it’s not as bad as being kicked in the balls--something with which he unfortunately has experience--but his cock and balls are still throbbing like crazy, and not in a good way. He’s already taken an extra strength Tylenol, but he swallows two more and _fuck_ waiting 8 hours.

The painkillers have kicked in a bit by the time his dad gets home, thank God. Stiles has also moved from his bedroom down to the couch because stumbling downstairs to swap the cold pack with a bag of peas had not been fun. 

Noah opens the door, catches sight of Stiles sweating on the couch with a towel wrapped bag between his legs, and winces in sympathy. “I guess the shot worked,” he says wryly, heading to his office to secure his weapon.

“Yeah,” Stiles says hoarsely. “Could you get the cold pack out of the fridge when you’re done?”

“Sure.”

His dad looks away when Stiles unwraps the bag of peas and replaces it with the cold pack. Then he puts the peas back in the freezer. “We’re so not cooking with those,” Stiles says. He doesn’t care if the bag is still sealed, it’d be gross.

Noah snorts. “I’m putting them back because you’re probably going to need them again later.”

Oh. “Fair.”

Noah sits down next to him and Stiles slumps against his side. “Any idea which way you’re going?” his dad asks, stroking Stiles’ hair gently.

“Probably alpha,” Stiles says. All the pain has been in his cock and balls, nothing internal to suggest an omega channel was forming. 

“That okay with you?”

Stiles can’t help but think of Peter. His cock throbs harder--still not in a good way--and he groans loudly. “I’ll be okay when this is over,” he pants.

“Hang in there, kiddo,” his dad murmurs. “And let me know if I can do anything.”

Sleep does not happen that night, but by the next morning the fever has broken and the ache in his groin has subsided enough that he can sleep with a couple of Tylenol, so Stiles snoozes the day away and wakes up just before dinner feeling a thousand times better. He hauls himself out of his damp, sweaty bed--gross--and into the shower. While he’s in there, Stiles carefully examines his cock. He’s gotten a bit bigger, which is a surprise. He always thought all those comments about big alpha dicks were bullshit, but while he’s not huge, becoming an alpha _has_ given him a boost. The other change, which he did expect, is the extra skin at the base. He’s not hard, so it’s just skin right now, but he knows that when the time comes, his knot will swell there.

After the shower he catches sight of himself in the mirror and stops to look for a minute. He looks… different. It’s nothing big, he hasn’t suddenly developed a new jawline or a bunch of muscles, but just like Stiles could tell in his graduation photos that he hadn’t expressed, he can tell now that he has. He grins and wraps the towel around his waist before heading back to his room to get dressed and strip the bed.

“Feeling better?” Noah asks when Stiles clatters downstairs with an armful of laundry.

“Way better,” Stiles assures him. He stuffs the sheets into the washer and sets it going before wandering into the kitchen. The oven is on and it smells like cheese and tomato sauce. “Lasagne?” He’d bought a ready to cook one yesterday.

“Yep.” 

Stiles gets a Coke out of the fridge and pops it open. “What?” he asks when he sees his dad watching him.

“Peter called while you were sleeping,” Noah says.

Stiles almost chokes, but he gets the swallow of Coke down safely. “He did? Why? Is he okay?”

Noah shakes his head and laughs. “That’s why he was calling. To see if you were okay. I told him you’d finally gotten to sleep and you’d talk to him later.”

“I should go see him.” Calling doesn’t seem like enough.

“Later,” his dad says firmly. “You only just finished expressing. Give yourself a day or two to settle in.”

And okay, Stiles wants to see Peter, and he feels fine, and he’s an adult now, but… his dad is still his dad. So he stays, and they eat dinner, and even though he slept all day he manages to sleep that night just fine. 

He does text Peter before bed, though, to let him know that he’s an alpha, he’s okay, and that he’ll visit the next day. Peter texts back right away: _Congratulations. Glad you’re okay. See you tomorrow._ The speed of his reply makes Stiles feel a bit bad for not texting him earlier, and something about the words themselves makes him worry. It’s not a very _Peter_ text. Stiles needs to see him.

He sleeps late the next morning despite his worry, but that’s for the best anyway—his dad has gone into work already, so he can’t tell Stiles to wait. Scott texts him, suggesting that they go out to celebrate, but Stiles doesn’t answer. Instead, he showers and gets dressed and heads out to his Jeep without even having breakfast. When he catches sight of his reflection in the driver’s side window, he pauses. He could have sworn that he’d just grabbed clothes at random, but he’s wearing his nicest jeans and a plain, black long sleeve t-shirt. It’s not his usual thing—Peter bought it for him. He looks like he’s dressed up. Not super formal, but definitely nicer than usual.

Well, that’s not a bad thing, right? Hell, the whole point is to make sure Peter knows that Stiles isn’t going to disappear on him. Showing that he appreciates things Peter has done for him is good for that. And it’d be weird to go back and change. Stiles gets in the car and heads out. 

The door to the Hale house opens while Stiles is jogging up the steps to the front porch. It’s Talia. Sometimes she makes him nervous, but today she’s smiling, and when he gets to the top of the steps she says, “Alphahood looks good on you, Stiles.”

Stiles can’t help but stand up a bit straighter at that. His dad is a good alpha, and the town couldn’t have a better Sheriff, but when Stiles thinks of how an alpha should be, Talia is the model he’s always used. “Thanks. How’s Peter?” 

As soon as he asks he realizes it’s a weird question. Nothing should have changed for Peter. Yeah, they’re friends, but this was Stiles’ change to deal with. Despite that, Talia’s smile warms with something he thinks might be approval. She lowers her voice confidentially. “He’ll never admit it, but he’s been a wreck the past two days. The first night, he didn’t even come down for dinner.”

Stiles frowns. “I should have come sooner, but my dad…”

Talia shakes her head. “No, he was right. It’s better for Peter to see you rested and confident than tired and worried.” She steps back from the door. “Come in, I’ll let him know you’re here.”

But she doesn’t have to go find Peter at all—when Stiles steps inside, the other man is already emerging from the downstairs hallway. He’s wearing slacks and a button front shirt and dress shoes, like he was planning on going out, even though it’s not even 11am and he’d never go out in public if he was a wreck like Talia said. He doesn’t look like a wreck, he looks incredible. A flush of heat washes through Stiles.

“Stiles,” Peter says, and he’s covering pretty well but Stiles thinks he can hear a thread of relief in his voice.

“Hey,” Stiles says, softer than he means to. Suddenly having Peter all the way on the other side of the room seems much too far. “Maybe this is weird,” Stiles says hesitantly, “but could I hug you?”

“Of course,” Peter says, and he’s across the room by the time Stiles has taken a single step. They’ve never really been the hugging kinds of friends, but it doesn’t feel awkward at all when Peter slides into his arms. Stiles rests his hands lightly on Peter’s back, afraid of making him feel trapped and a little worried Peter will feel the heat that’s simmering under his skin. But if he does feel it, Peter must not mind, because he leans into Stiles. Tension that Stiles hadn’t even been aware of goes out of him. He tightens his grip on Peter and turns his head a hair, his nose and lips brushing Peter’s cheek. Peter lets out a tiny breath, so quiet that Stiles would have missed it if it hadn’t been right by his ear. It sounds… content.

The hug goes on awhile. Longer than Stiles would normally hug anyone, but it never starts feeling awkward so he just lets it keep going. When he eventually pulls back, it’s only because he wants to look at Peter when he talks to him. 

“Am I, you know, different?” Stiles asks, stepping back from the hug and rubbing his palms nervously against his pants. What if Peter didn’t want to hang out now that Stiles had expressed? What if they’d only been close because they’d been in the same boat?

“Yes and no,” Peter says. He takes hold of Stiles’ elbow and draws him over to the couch where they sit, half turned so that they’re facing each other. “The differences are subtle. You’ve heard of pregnancy glow?”

“Please do not tell me I look pregnant,” Stiles groans.

Peter laughs. “No, of course not. It’s just an example. Pregnancy glow is a real thing, caused by a change in hormones and increased blood flow to the skin. The difference between unexpressed you and alpha you is the same kind of subtle, but instead of glowing you look…” he tilts his head, considering. “More assertive. Your bone structure is a bit more obvious, too, like you’ve lost a bit of weight in the face. Not much--again, it’s subtle--but enough that the difference registers subconsciously.”

“Huh,” Stiles rubs his jaw, but of course he can’t feel any change. 

“And of course you smell different,” Peter goes on. “For a lot of people, that’s the most significant change.”

“Good? Bad?” Stiles prompts.

“Different,” Peter says, and smirks when Stiles pokes him for it. “It’s true, though. You’ll smell different to different people.”

“Because of compatibility,” Stiles says, a little impatient. “I know. I’m asking how I smell to _you_.”

“Oh.” Stiles could swear that Peter goes just a touch pink, but he only hesitates a moment before leaning toward Stiles and slowly, deeply inhaling. It’s sexier than it has any right to be, and Stiles _knows_ that he’s blushing slightly. Peter leans back again. “You smell good,” he says. “Spicy.” There’s definitely some color in his cheeks, even if his body language is casual. 

The hug, the blush… maybe expressing hadn’t widened the gulf between them after all. Maybe, just maybe, this was the first step on the path across it. 

It’s a struggle to stay relaxed when his heart is suddenly racing like a freight train, but Stiles clings to his composure. “Good! Good is good.” He wishes he could compliment Peter’s scent in return, but unexpressed people don’t really have one. There is a faint, warm smell in the air, a little bit like baking bread, but it can’t be Peter because Stiles has never smelled it before. He casts about for something to say, a reason for them to spend more time together, and lands on: “You want to watch something?” with a wave at the TV across from them. As soon as the words leave his mouth Stiles makes a face at himself. “Sorry, I know that’s random, it’s just…” 

“You want to do something normal,” Peter fills in. 

It would be easy to agree, but Stiles doesn’t want Peter thinking he’d be happy to be around just anyone right now. “I want to spend time with you,” he says bluntly. “I’ve been feeling it since my fever broke.”

Peter looks away, shifting like he’s thinking of standing. “Stiles--”

“You promised we’d still be friends,” Stiles interrupts, desperate to keep that space from opening up again. 

It works. Peter looks at him again, settles back into the couch. “Of course.”

They channel surf until they land on some reality TV show about home renovation. The two of them have always enjoyed shows like these because the guests are so painfully ripe for mockery. They fall into their usual rhythm quickly, but Stiles is hyper aware of Peter next to him. He wants to slide closer, but he’s too afraid of running Peter off.

But then Peter touches his thigh, just a quick tap to get his attention before Peter offers up another barb to the TV, and Stiles realizes how much more Peter has been touching him. Carefully, Stiles tries returning the touches. Taps and pats to underline his comments, bumping their shoulders together when they laugh, small things like that. Peter accepts them unconsciously, the same way he’d doled them out. 

They’re most of the way through another episode when Stiles realizes that Peter is warm to the touch. Not just regular body heat warm, but _fever_ warm. Stiles frowns and scoops up the remote, muting the TV. Peter turns to look at him in surprise. “What’s wrong?”

“You’re warm,” Stiles says, touching Peter’s hand to illustrate. “Like, _really_ warm. Are you feeling okay?”

Peter frowns and touches his own cheeks, as if he could feel his own fever. “I don’t feel sick,” he offers, but then he shifts in his seat in a familiar way. Recently familiar. 

Stiles takes a discreet breath. The baking bread smell is still around, and it’s stronger now. He bites his lip. If he’s wrong about this, bringing it up would just be cruel. “Any aches or pains?” he asks, hoping that’s generic enough.

Peter’s frown deepens. “Some cramps. Something I ate, probably,” he says, but he doesn’t sound certain now. 

“What about… um.” Crap, there’s no generic way to ask this. He falls back on the doctor’s phrase. “Genital pain?”

Peter gives him a sharp look. “Not every fever is someone expressing. I’ll forgive it this time because you just went through your own expression, but--”

“Peter,” Stiles interrupts, “it’s not just the fever. You’re squirming just like I did when everything started aching. And that gas doesn’t really feel like gas, does it?” Peter doesn’t answer, but he looks away from Stiles. “Listen, if you don’t believe me, why don’t we see what Talia thinks?”

“Fine,” Peter bites out.

Stiles leaps off the couch and heads for the other alpha’s office. The door is open and she looks up from her computer with a smile when Stiles taps on the frame, but the smile vanishes when she sees the look on Stiles’ face. “What’s wrong?”

He doesn’t want to bias her impression, so all Stiles says is, “Peter needs to see you.”

She gets up immediately and follows him to the living room.

Stiles doesn’t know if Peter is ramping up quickly or if it’s the contrast with the clearer air outside the living room, but the baking bread scent--Peter’s scent--seems twice as powerful now. Stiles can’t resist taking in a deep lungful of it. He smells so damn _good_.

Talia takes a breath, too, and her eyes go wide. “Peter, I can scent you,” she says immediately.

Peter jumps up off the couch and winces, shifting to stand a bit bowlegged. “You can?” he asks, and the wariness coloring the hope in his voice hurts. 

“Yes,” Talia says, and Stiles nods confirmation. “Do you have other symptoms?”

Peter is flushed and there are beads of sweat on his temples, but Stiles gets why Talia is asking. Saying it makes it more real. “I’m warm,” Peter says, voice growing a bit hoarse. “I have cramps. I thought they were gas. And--” he looks at Stiles and smiles weakly “--there’s some genital pain.”

“Penis or anus or both?” Talia asks with all the briskness of a mother.

Peter grimaces. “Both.”

“I’m going to call Doctor Daniels,” Talia says. “Stiles, stay with Peter.” She leaves, presumably to retrieve a phone.

Stiles quickly crosses the room to Peter. He takes the man’s hand before he thinks about it, but Peter squeezes it before he can question himself. They sink down onto the couch together, turned toward each other and close enough that their joined hands rest on top of Stiles’s thigh. “You okay?” Stiles asks quietly, remembering _Sometimes the idea of my life changing from anything but what it is terrifies me._

“This isn’t the way I ever imagined it happening,” Peter says. His voice is shaking, but Stiles isn’t sure if it’s fear or happiness or something else. “I thought, if it ever did happen, it would be in a doctor’s office. Some new version of the shot, or another hormone therapy that’s safe for the unexpressed.” He looks down at their hands, rubs a thumb over the back of Stiles’ hand. “I thought that if that was the only way to do it, maybe I shouldn’t. Maybe I wasn’t meant to be able to form real bonds.” 

The only thing that stops Stiles’ heart from breaking is that none of that matters now. “It wasn’t some kind of cosmic punishment,” Stiles says.

Peter looks up and meets Stiles’ eyes. “I still feel like I’ve been pardoned,” he says. “I feel like...” he hesitates, searching Stiles’ face for… something. “You know what they say about triggered expressions.”

Stiles’ heart leaps. “It’s supposed to mean that person is your best possible match,” he says. “That you’re meant to be together.” God, he _wants_ it. But his gender expression--or lack thereof--has ruled Peter’s whole life. He deserves more than that. “Peter, if you don’t want this… me… I wouldn’t--”

“I want it!” Peter cuts him off. Stiles’ mouth snaps shut and Peter reaches up to cup his cheek in his free hand. His expression softens. “I never said anything because I thought you deserved more than I could give you.”

“You’re all I ever wanted,” Stiles says, turning into the touch and brushing his lips over Peter’s palm. 

Talia returns, then, and Peter lets go of Stiles’ face, but keeps hanging onto Stiles’ hand. Talia She holds out her cell phone to Peter, “Doctor Daniels,” she explains. 

Peter takes the phone. “I’m going to put you on speaker,” he says immediately, then pauses. “No, I’m sure.” Lowering the phone from his ear, he taps the speaker button and lays the phone on the arm of the couch. “Stiles and Talia are with me.”

“Talia tells me Stiles has triggered your gender expression, is that correct?” the doctor asks.

“Yes,” Peter says. He sounds a lot calmer than he looks. Stiles finds himself shuffling somehow closer. 

“Okay,” Doctor Daniels sounds just a bit urgent. Expression isn’t an emergency, though. Right? “You may know some of what I’m going to tell you, but I need to be sure everything is covered. Do you understand?” They all confirm, and he goes one. “First, Peter, since an alpha triggered your expression, you are guaranteed to express omega. Is that okay with you? You have a registered preference for alpha in your file.”

Peter barks out a laugh. “That preference is twelve years old,” he tells the doctor, “and poorly understood even then. I’m perfectly happy to express omega.”

“Good,” the doctor says, and there’s definitely relief in his voice. “We could have tried to stop your expression if that wasn’t the case, but that option is extremely dangerous and time limited.” That explains the urgency. The doctor goes on to run through what seems to be the usual spiel about expressing. It’s basically the same one Stiles got, at least, although he goes more into what’s involved in an omega male transition specifically. 

But once they’ve covered the basics, there’s more to talk about. “With a triggered expression,” Doctor Daniels tells Peter, “it’s highly likely that you’ll go into heat shortly after expression completes.”

Peter grimaces and adjusts the cold pack Stiles got for him about halfway through the basics discussion. “Doctor, the way I feel now, sex is the last thing I want.”

“Right now it may be,” Daniels says, “but it’ll only take a day after expression for your body to settle and be ready for heat. The more time Stiles spends with you during your expression, the more contact you have, the more likely it is that you’ll have that heat.”

Stiles glances down at where their hands are entwined, their legs pressed together. He’s leaning into Peter’s shoulder. He looks up to see Peter watching him and bites his lip, wondering if he should move away. But Peter hasn’t shifted an inch. “Is it safe to have the heat?” Peter asks, never looking away from Stiles.

“Absolutely,” Doctor Daniels assures him. “It’s not required, but from what I know about late expressions, it’s best not to interfere with your hormones. Will Stiles-- Ah, apologies, I shouldn’t assume. Will you take a partner for the heat?”

“We’ll have to talk about it,” Peter says, but his scent grows even more pungent and Stiles is sure his scent is doing the same. 

“If you do, I’d advise against condoms.”

Peter flushes. “I need a lot more than a day or two or in the middle of expressing to think about children, doctor.”

“You won’t be fertile yet,” Daniels says calmly. “It is literally impossible for an omega to conceive if they have their first heat within a week of expression. I make the recommendation because a close bond between you and your alpha will make heat easier for you.”

“Ah. I see,” Peter says. He scowls for a moment before adding, “My apologies.” Stiles finds himself rubbing his thumb soothingly across Peter’s hand. 

“None necessary,” the doctor assures him. “You’re out of sorts at the moment.” That’s the understatement of the decade, Stiles thinks. He catches Peter’s eye and the two of them let out identical snorts of laughter. 

Doctor Daniels probably hears them, but he goes on as professionally as ever. “If you’re not interested in interrupting any of the stages of your expression, then I believe there’s nothing more I can do for you. Rest, take painkillers if you need them--” Peter’s already taken the maximum over the counter dose “--and listen to your body. Call me if you have any concerns, but otherwise… Congratulations, Peter.”

The reminder that this is something he’s _wanted_ brightens Peter’s expression, “Thank you, Doctor,” he ways warmly before hanging up the phone.

“Peter. Stiles,” Talia says, and Stiles actually starts. He’d forgotten she was even in the room. He looks over to find her watching them with a tender smile. “We should get you settled in Peter’s room.”

Peter leans on Stiles to get up the stairs and down the hall, his teeth gritted against the pain between his legs. He relaxes a little once he’s stretched out on the bed with the towel-wrapped cold pack between his legs. Stiles sits on the edge of the bed, holding his hand, until Peter tugs and asks, “Lay down with me?”

Stiles eases down carefully, not wanting to jostle the bed and therefore Peter. Curled up on his side, he lay facing Peter, their hands still clasped on the narrow bit of bed between them. Peter’s scent is almost overwhelming this close, warm and rich and welcoming. Stiles heart aches. “Tell me what you need,” he murmurs, thumb stroking the skin of Peter’s hand.

Peter’s gaze is fixed on Stiles. “Just stay with me.”

It takes almost three days for Peter’s expression to finish. Three days of fever and a constant rotation of cold packs. Three days of coaxing him into eating chilled finger food and supporting him into the shower when he couldn’t stand the tackiness of his skin any longer. Stiles can’t help worrying even though Doctor Daniels had warned them that omega male transitions take longer and that an expression as delayed as Peter’s was likely to be drawn out.

But eventually the fever breaks. Peter is sleeping when it happens, but Stiles is awake, watching over him. The shivering stops and Peter starts to sweat instead, signs the doctor had said to watch for. Stiles can’t stop himself from checking Peter’s temperature again and again, relaxing more as it drops closer to normal. He slips into sleep himself with the thermometer still in his hand.

Stiles wakes to a gentle murmur of his name and the best scent he’s ever encountered in his life. He opens his eyes to Peter smiling at him across the bed, clear-eyed and at ease in a way he hasn’t been for days. Stiles wants to slide across the inches between them, wants to pull Peter against him and kiss him good morning. But they haven’t talked about any of that yet. “Good morning,” he says instead, voice a little rough with sleep.

“Good morning,” Peter murmurs.

“How’re you feeling?” Stiles reaches out and brushes a hand over Peter’s forehead. His temperature feels normal and when Stiles lets his hand drop Peter takes it in his own.

“Good,” Peter says. “I think it’s over.”

Stiles squeezes Peter’s hand, stroking a little with his thumb. “That’s good. Do you feel different?” He hadn’t, not really. 

But Peter surprises him. “Yes,” he says immediately. He licks his lips. “I want to kiss you.” Stiles’ heart leaps. “I’ve wanted to kiss you for a long time,” Peter admits, “but it’s _so much more intense_ now. I’ve been lying here, watching you sleep, and I can’t stop thinking about kissing you.”

Stiles’ heart is pounding. “Why didn’t you?”

“You were sleeping.” 

Peter’s gaze drops. Looks at his lips, Stiles realizes. “I’m not sleeping now.”

Stiles isn’t sure who moves. Maybe they both do. All he knows is that suddenly they’re pressed together, legs tangled, his arm around Peter’s waist, Peter’s hand curled around the back of his neck, and they’re _kissing_. Peter’s mouth is open and slick and he smells _so good_ Heat seems to bloom everywhere they touch, throbbing through Stiles with his hammering pulse. 

It’s not Stiles’ first kiss. It’s not even his tenth kiss, but comparing them is like comparing a leaky tap with a roaring river. They hardly seem like the same species of thing, those tame explorations and this urgent claiming. Peter is making eager, pleasured noises in the back of his throat, and every time their mouths part for even an instant Peter’s name slips out of Stiles. 

Some part of Stiles thinks that maybe they should stop and talk before this goes any further, but most of him is swamped with pleasure and Peter’s incredible scent and the hot length of Peter’s cock rutting against his through their clothes. Peter isn’t slowing down, either. From the way his hips roll, all he wants is to _speed up_. Stiles answers with a rough grind of his own and soon the kissing gives way to panting, both of them too breathless to manage it. 

Peter breaks first, his rhythm devolving into an uneven stutter before he comes with a startled noise. The smell of his slick thickens and Stiles moans, sucks in big breaths of the scent, and clutches Peter close as he tips over the edge himself. The rush of orgasm is overwhelming, leaving Stiles feeling dazed as he slowly comes down from the high. 

He’s brought back to reality by the sudden realization that Peter is shaking. “Hey,” Stiles says, rubbing Peter’s back carefully. “Are you okay?” Damn it, they should have _talked_ first.

“I’m fine,” Peter insists, but his voice is hoarse, and when he pulls back his eyes are wet.

“You don’t look fine,” Stiles ventures, but even as he says it he realizes that Peter’s scent is still warm and appealing.

“I must have been told a hundred times how much more intense sex is when you’re expressed, and I still had _no idea_ ,” Peter says, and huffs a sheepish laugh, wiping his eyes. “It was overwhelming, that’s all. Amazing, but overwhelming. And then…” He hesitates, licks his lips.

“And then?” Stiles prompts when it seems like Peter is stuck.

Peter laughs sheepishly and ducks his head. “Coming as an omega is… different.”

Stiles blushes. Between porn and sex ed classes, he has an idea what Peter means. Thinking about it--the rush of slick, the way Peter’s hole would spasm, looking for a knot to milk--makes him throb in a way that would mean getting hard if he hadn’t come less than a minute ago. Peter’s nostrils flare and Stiles doesn’t know how he could possibly be smelling arousal over the scent of come and slick, but he must, because his eyes darken and he leans in to kiss Stiles again.

The kiss goes on for a while, but eventually the mess they’ve made is too uncomfortable to bear. Stiles wants to shower together, but he has to admit that Peter’s right when he says, “We should probably talk more first.” Neither of them have the restraint to keep a shower innocent.

So they clean up separately, and dress separately, but when they head downstairs together they automatically clasp hands. 

Talia and her husband, Joseph, are bent over laptops at the dining room table, the occasional stack of paper or notebook cluttering the surface around them. They’ve been working from home while waiting out Peter’s expression, Stiles realizes.

Talia looks up as they step into the dining room and smiles brilliantly. “Peter, you look so much better,” she says, standing and coming around the table. Peter lets go of Stiles’ hand to hug her. When they let go, Talia surprises Stiles by pulling him into a hug, too. “You’re taking such good care of him,” she murmurs into Stiles’ ear. Stiles knows he’s bright red when she lets go of him, but he’s beaming, too.

Joseph makes breakfast for the two of them, though he and Talia only have coffee. “How are you doing?” Talia asks when they’ve cleared the dishes away.

“Everything is so much more intense,” Peter says, but he seems less overwhelmed by it now than he was before. “Scents, feelings… I swear I can feel bonds forming.”

“You can,” Talia confirms. When Peter’s eyebrows fly up in surprise, she laughs. “I can feel our familial bond becoming bidirectional. And,” she nods at Peter and Stiles’ hands, still joined where they rest on top of the table, “I’d be shocked if you haven’t already started building a mate bond.”

“It hasn’t even been a day,” Stiles protests, though he squeezes Peter’s hand at the same time. Mate bonds take _time_ to build. Time and a lot of physical, but not necessarily sexual, intimacy. It takes months to even _start_ a mate bond.

Talia’s smile is indulgent. “Stiles, you and Peter have been treating each other like mates for years. Maybe the hormones to build the bond haven’t been there until now, but the foundation is well laid.”

Stiles looks at Peter and remembers all the times Peter had fed him. All the times he promised Peter he’d be there for him, no matter what. Peter buying him clothes, and Stiles dragging Peter out of his office, insisting he needs a break. Stiles remembers dressing up for Peter after he’d expressed, and he remembers that Peter had been dressed up, too. 

The light in Peter’s eyes says that he’s remembered all those things, too. “Stiles,” Peter says, bringing his other hand up so that he’s holding Stiles’s hand in both of his, a hint of formality in his tone. “My alpha. Will you share my heat with me?”

“ _Yes_.” Stiles laughs, feeling like pure joy is bubbling up inside of him. He adds his other hand to the pile. “Yes, Peter, my omega, I’d be honored.”

~End~


End file.
